Who Would You Take
by Miliz
Summary: "There is this game muggle kids play," She says with a bitter chuckle. "Who would you take to a desert island? You are supposed to choose one of your mates, or maybe your little crush, or your favorite celebrity. You are supposed to pick one person in the whole world. I am not saying you are the last person I would choose… But you are close."
1. Chapter 1

I wake up to a sound I haven't heard in years. For a few moments I just lay there and listen to it, still half dreaming. It is the ocean. The waves crashing against the shore in a violent and rhythmic sound. The gush of water seems so close I can smell the salty air. I feel the work of the wind raising sand.

It's the ocean, but that is impossible. I haven't been around a beach in years. I must still be dreaming, I must, but I am not. I once read somewhere we never feel pain in dreams. That is how I know I am awake. I am in pain. I cannot pinpoint where it is coming from; it feels like nowhere and everywhere in my body. It is not acute, paralyzing pain. It is more like I have overly exercised yesterday, and today I am completely sore.

Did I exercise yesterday?

What day is today?

Where am I?

I open my eyes at last, and there is a new sound to wake my stunned brain. It is a voice this time. Draco? No, certainly not. Draco's voice is very low and husky these days. And the voice I hear is high and pitchy and definitely girly. Bella?

 _Pull yourself together_ , I scold myself, straitening up on the mattress. Bella's voice is a memory almost as forgotten now as the sound of waves.

I start to feel a ting of apprehension as I look around. I don't know this room. I have no recollection of how I came to be here. I am wearing my dark blue nightdress, and the feel of it is familiar against my skin, but that is where familiarity ends.

"You!" The door to the bedroom slams open, and instinct puts me on my feet. The girl on the threshold points a finger at me as if she caught me in some mischief. "How did you bring me here, and why?!" She demands, her voice as high and as pitchy and as girly as I have heard in the distance.

It takes me a few seconds absorb the question and formulate an answer.

"I did not bring you here," I tell her at last. "I don't even know _where_ is _here_. I just woke up."

"Don't play with me, or you'll pay for it, I swear. Where is my wand?"

Where is _my_ wand? I look at the bedside table automatically, because it is where I keep my wand at home, but there is nothing there but a lamp. The girl on the door marches across the room and starts going through the drawers, as if I might have hidden her wand there. But they are all empty.

"I did not bring _myself_ here," I say, trying to stay calm. She is now searching the bed, the pillows, the covers. There is nothing. "What is happening?"

"How the hell would I know?!" She spats, straightening herself and looking down at me. I didn't remember she being that tall. But as I am barefoot, my world vision is lower. "One second we are in the court room, next thing I know, I wake up in some creepy unknown house on the beach with _you_!"

The courtroom. Yes. I remember the courtroom. I remember being on stand. I remember the aurors, the Minister, I remember Draco watching me from the bleachers, and yes, I remember this girl. Hermione Granger.

The scary part is to realize I don't remember anything else from that on.

"The last thing I recall is to give my testimony," I say cautiously. "I finished it, I came down the stand…"

Granger arches an eyebrow, staring at me questioningly.

"That is all," I conclude, shaking my head. "After that, everything is a blank. What do you know?"

She sighs before rubbing her eyes. There is distrust in her posture, but after looking at me up and down, I believe she decided I am not hiding a wand under this nightie. It is embarrassing to be dressed this way in front of a stranger, in a stranger place, but I wouldn't show. And Granger is in yellow pajamas, after all.

"That's pretty much as far as I got, too," She admits, before heading to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To find out where I am. And how much more _company_ I have."

I don't see another choice but to follow her. The house is not big; only two bedrooms, a bathroom, a small kitchen and a rather cozy living room. There is no attic, and no basement. No more _company_. Once the front door is open, the ocean welcomes us as a longing boyfriend. It shines under a blue sky, and the salty air hugs me all at once.

Have I missed it all this time and never realized it?

"Jesus Christ, what is this place?" The girl's shout wakes me from my torpor.

In front of us there is only the infinite sea. Nothing to the right or the left but the empty beach. Behind the small house, the sand extends for maybe a mile, before turning into a scarce forest.

I don't recognize any of it. Nothing. I have never been here before. Even this ocean is not one I know, its scent feels more like a memory than anything I have actually smelled before. It is all so foreign I am not sure why I am not more nervous than this.

The girl is.

She glares at me once more, like it is my fault that we woke up in this place, even though the truth is that I am just as lost as she is. Then she stalks to the woods, her feet digging into the sand as she moves with some effort.

For a moment, everything looks surreal. I watch this girl in yellow pajamas walking away on a beach I don't know. I am wearing a nightdress, unarmed, alone with a _war hero_ not older than my son. My son, where is my son? I have so many questions.

I know walking into the woods is the logical thing to do, the only place we have to explore. But it seems silly to go there without at least changing first. Changing to what, though? I am not home. I don't have any clothes here.

 _But it is your nightdress._

It is. How can it be?

I follow Hermione Granger again. She is walking slowly and difficultly for a girl of her age, and I catch up ease enough. She only glances at me before we cross the tree line. Not much of a forest here, I see. Tall trees with huge leaves, and a battered and brown grass under our feet. I am not surprised to find nothing and no one. Not even animals. Not even the faintest buzz of life.

I cannot say I am not getting preoccupied.

The woods are half a mile at most, but the girl is panting by my side. It is a weird sound, as if she is straining now to take a step. I look at her, at her tall, slim figure. She is even a little athletic, if you pay close attention. But she is sweating and there is color in her cheeks.

I would ask what is wrong if I cared.

When we are out of the forest, we are again on a beach. I immediately know what this means; this place is an island, and not a big one. On the contraire, it is a tiny, tiny island. But there is a house in sight now. As small as the one we left, but it is a house.

"Thank God," Granger whispers by my side and tries to speed up, but at this point she is limping.

When we are fifty yards from the building, I stop. Granger keeps going. She doesn't see it yet. She doesn't realize. The girl looks back at me, raising an eyebrow. There is pain on her face. And there is curiosity. Why did I stop?

"It is the same," I say softly.

She frowns, "What?"

"The house," I explain, letting out a deep sigh. "It is the same one we left."

"What? No— It… It can't be." She stares at the back of the house again. No surprise that she cannot recognize it. When we walked out of the beach, we never looked back to see how the house looks from behind, but I see the ocean. The framework. It is the same.

I am proven right when we get there. It is not an island, after all. Or maybe it is, but we wouldn't know. We are locked in here; the end drives us again to the beginning. I suppose we could walk along the beach to see where we can get, but I am sure walking to the left will only make me come back by the right.

"I can't believe it." Granger sits laboriously on the porch, grimacing as she adjusts herself.

"You are bleeding," I say, because now I see the stain on the side of her pajama's shirt. It is deep red, almost brown.

"I know," She replies coolly. "I think we were kidnapped," She adds, staring at me like she means to read my mind and find out once for all if I am involved.

 _Merlin, I will need patience._

"It is the safest thing to assume, yes," I nod. "Although I cannot imagine someone who would benefit from kidnapping the both of us. Even more when Harry Potter and the Minister of Magic were in the same room."

"Maybe they were kidnapped too," She wonders. "Or… Or maybe they'll use us as baits."

I don't say there is no point using a bait that no fish in the ocean would touch. Lately, nobody wants anything to do with the Malfoys. I am not a valuable asset to a kidnapper.

"Do you remember anything about being taken?" She demands, narrowing those brown eyes.

"I have already told you I don't."

She watches me mindfully. It is clear someone brought us here and took our wands, trapping us in a place without an exit. I feel sore and feverish, and Granger is obviously wounded, but we are alive. That means they want something from us. If that is correct, they will come back to get it, whoever they are.

"All we can do is wait," The girl says after a moment and I know we just had the same train of thought. I feel resigned, but she looks angry. As angry as her pained face allows.

"Let's go inside and find a first aid kit," I suggest, opening the door.

Nobody cares for Malfoys, and yet I am locked here with this girl. However the negotiations go, I know who everybody outside will be trying to save. In the meantime, I have to save myself.

 **…**

* * *

It is nighttime again. Nobody came. There is only the wind, the waves, and the occasional chant of a cicada. And Hermione Granger, of course. She wouldn't let me take care of her wound. She locked herself in the bathroom for half an hour, after we found bandages. I heard quiet swearing, and panting breathing; she was pale when she came out, but she was not bleeding anymore.

I made lunch, mainly because I did not know what else to do. My heart sank a little once I opened the kitchen cabinets. Part of me was afraid there was not going to be any food, but it was worst; there is food to last months.

By the look on the girl's face, she thought the same as I did. Then she began going through every inch of the house. Every door, closet, drawer, pillow, bed, crest – all of it. She found nothing and, at the same time, everything. There is everything here needed to live a comfortable life. Nothing to assure us that we are not cursed to live that comfortable life.

Maybe we are.

I have driven myself exhausted thinking about it. I cannot remember anything else. I cannot conjecture a theory that explains all the details. Why I woke up wearing my own clothes? Why there is more of them in the closet? Why am I with Hermione Granger? Why such a fancy hideout, instead of a dark basement somewhere? And why me at all? The only people that could mean me harm would want me dead, not locked up in a paradisiac island. Even if this is far from paradise.

I cannot avoid wondering if that is somehow the goal; to mentally torture me. Granger acted like I am the one unreliable, but is she acting? Is this some plot to get more information from me? I have nothing more to give. I told them everything in exchange for my family's freedom. For another chance.

If this is an attempt to make me pay or to break me, then they will be surprised. I have lived through meaningless, senseless days before. I am used to go on according to what I have, without questioning if it is fair, if it could be different. Just go ahead surviving. I am so good at it I am sure Granger will get tired first.

On the other hand, she _is_ hurt. That she is not faking. And I am not fine either. I was feverish in the morning, but I am worst now. My cheeks are red, and I feel limp after spending most of the day on this bed. And what choice do I have? To chat with Granger? The girl I once held kidnapped in my own house. Should we share these memories? _Oh, Granger, isn't it all more comfortable this time?_

She must hate me, and I don't blame her. I don't care enough to blame anyone. We are alone here, and I don't feel well. The lack of my wand is like not having fingers on my hands. Everything is hard to do.

Once upon a time Granger was on my house and she wouldn't believe if I told her I still hear her screams, some nights. But tonight all I hear is the ocean.

 **…**

* * *

"You don't have to cook," Her voice is as sharp as her sudden presence in the kitchen, the next morning.

"I do, since I have to eat."

"You don't have to cook for me," She says, watching as I put a second plate on the table.

"I am used to it." Is all the answer I give.

"Doesn't look like it," The girl eyes the little mess on the sink. Usually I would not leave it like that, but cooking without magic took twice as much time. The dishes will take me time, too, and breakfast will be cold by then.

"I am used to do it with magic." I stay calm, mostly because she sounds like she wants to push me. No, girl, you won't push me out of balance.

There is a moment of silence, before she sits down.

"How is your side?"

"Fine," The answer is brisk. She doesn't want to talk. It does not hurt my feelings. Gingerly, Granger tries the eggs. She thinks I have poisoned them? I grin. It does not hurt my feelings either. She chews and swallows, before looking up at me. "It's good. Thank you."

There are dark circles under her eyes. I woke up in the middle of the night and saw the light lit under the door to her bedroom. Maybe she was in pain, maybe she was obsessed about finding out what is going on.

"I've read all the books in that living room shelf," She says slowly, after a while. Obsessed it is. "I had already read all of them, actually, but I wanted to know if there was anything helpful somewhere."

"And there was?"

"No," She admits defeat as badly as she thanks for breakfast. "There was nothing, and I got nowhere."

"The clothes in the closet are yours?" I ask suddenly. For a moment, I think if they are not, then the person who brought us here knew _me_ , had access to _my_ things, but not to Granger's. We could try to narrow it down.

"Yes, they are," She answers with a sigh. "Yours too, I imagine?"

"Yes."

"The shirt I'm wearing now? I wore it the day before the trial. This place just couldn't have been prepared much sooner."

"We don't know how long we have been unconscious," I point out, and she stares at me seriously, before nodding.

"I suppose you are right. But wouldn't we feel something if we had been knocked out for days? Wouldn't be even a little hard to move?"

I don't say it has been hard for me. My heavy limbs, my sore muscles. The fever who glued me in bed most of the day and the night before. I don't say anything.

"Look," She starts, and I know what is coming before she goes on. "If you are behind this somehow, we don't have to keep it up. Just tell me what you want. We can negotiate. I will listen, I will talk to anyone I have to talk…"

"I am sure you would," I say, leveling her stare. "Are _you_ behind this?"

" _Me?_ " And there it is. The truth. I am good with the truth. She is too surprised with my question, almost as if I am crazy for even considering it. How come _she_ would be involved? In kidnapping? Mental manipulation? Never!

"I guess this is a no," I go back to eating.

"Well, then it's clear we are only leverage."

"Is it, now?"

"Yes, of course. If no one comes to talk to us, question us, torture us for information… Well, then they don't want anything from _us_ , but still here we are. They must be using us to get something from someone else."

I am sure that makes sense in her case; Harry Potter's best friend, war hero, the mighty Granger. However, there is nothing and no one to trade for me. I am not worthy anything anymore. I don't know if I ever was.

I don't say this either.

"How do you know you were not tortured?" I ask after a sip of juice. "We are both lacking memories, and you are wounded."

"Not enough," She replies simply. All of what that answer implies seem to go unnoticed. Gryffindors. I try not to roll my eyes.

"So, summarizing, your theory is that we are being held hostages."

"Yes."

"Together."

She shrugs. "I suppose the economy is too bad for renting two houses on the beach."

It costs me not to laugh. Not that this girl is funny; it is just our ridiculous situation. Of course, most of what she said makes sense. It doesn't explain everything, but it is a good answer, for now. It can calm my brain for a while. For a short while.

"You are bleeding again," I warn her once I spot the dark point growing in her white shirt.

"Bloody hell," She hisses, standing up.

This time I don't even bother. I am eating my eggs while the door to the bathroom slams shut.

 **…**

* * *

We have been here for three days. No one came. I cook, she washes the dishes. Apart from that, we barely see each other. She spends most of the time in her bedroom, reading books she has already read. I stay on the beach, watching this strange blue ocean, as I am now.

All days are sunny, and all days I am cold. There is no ending this fever, but at least for now I have learned to go around it. Granger doesn't do much, or else she starts bleeding again. I am good with healing – there was a time in my life I thought of being a healer –, but there is not a potion in the house, and not a useful plant around. Anyway, Granger never asks for help, and I haven't offered again. She bleeds her mudblood, and it always looks a lot like mine.

I have been thinking about Draco. In case Granger is right and we are here as hostages, I hope he knows he doesn't have to sacrifice himself to get me back. That he doesn't owe me that, that I would be happy to stay here forever and pay my debt. The only real job of a mother is to teach her son to know right from wrong, and I have failed. I owe him everything for that.

"I have been thinking about it too," Granger's voice gives me a start. I did not hear her approaching, and now she is towering over my right shoulder. Have I been thinking aloud?

"What?" I ask.

"The ocean," She replies as if it is obvious. "Our only way out left."

"Oh," Is everything I manage. I haven't thought about it once.

"I guess it's worth a try."

"Will you swim to see how far you can get?" I arch an eyebrow. That is just silly. There is no land in sight, where would she ever get?

"No, of course not," She rolls her eyes at me. It would bother me more if she didn't look so childish when she does it. "We should build a canoe."

"A canoe?"

"Yes, a small boat."

"I know what a canoe is." Now I am rolling my eyes too. Merlin. "But how will you ever build one?" I am not ready to start using 'we'.

"With magic, of course." Granger looks over her shoulder to the woods behind the house. "Without a wand, I can't do anything too complex, true, but to transform a trunk in a canoe… well, maybe I can manage that much."

Magic without a wand? As a kid, I used to be able to do a lot of things with natural magic. But once I became an adult, it got much harder to concentrate my magic into a concrete spell. It is like this to most of us.

Either way, I believe _she_ can do it. I have memories of Draco telling me how much of a know-it-all she was. And I have seen her in battle. She is a powerful, determined witch. She can probably build a bloody canoe.

"You build a boat, and then what?" I ask her, raising an eyebrow.

"We try to see if this is really an island. If there's something near that is just disguised. If we can trespass the spell limits. I know it is a long shot, but what else can we do?"

"You are too injured to row, and I cannot possibly take us very far by my own," Only the idea of doing this kind of manual labor tires me and bores me endlessly. "Unless you can move the boat with magic, too."

"Maybe I can, maybe not." She shrugs. "But I'll row, if I can't do magic. I'm not too injured."

Stupid invincible youth. I miss it.

"Tomorrow," I say. I feel too tired today. This fever wears me down.

Granger opens her mouth to protest, I feel it, but maybe she sees something on my face. Something I don't know and I don't want to be there. And then she nods.

"Tomorrow."

 **…**

* * *

She cannot transfigure a tree into a canoe, after all. And she has been trying for over an hour now. The trunk changed color and became really smooth, is true, but it is still a tree. I am watching it in silence, because the look on the girl's face is not friendly at all.

"Why? Why isn't it working?" She mutters, closing her eyes and extending a hand once more.

"It's enough," I say when the trunk becomes blue. That is just pathetic. The girl is tiring herself out, and I am cold standing here.

"You can go inside," She tells me dismissively.

"Oh, thank you for your permission," I reply sharply. She winces.

"It was not what I meant. But you won't tell me when it's enough, and you don't have to stay here if you won't help."

She knows very well I cannot. I have tried and I cannot. Anal, arrogant girl.

"I say it is enough because you are too childish to see that for yourself. I am locked in here with a stubborn kid, and since I don't know the terms to our release, yes, I say when it is enough for you to wear yourself out."

"Your concern is moving, but don't worry, I will find a way out of this place, and you can join me when I do, since joining the team in the end is something like your specialty, correct?"

"Don't presume you know anything about me, your little—"

"What? Mudblood? Will you call me mudblood now? You know how I learned this word? From the filthy mouth of your son. What do I care if you call me that too? I have saved his blonde head before, and yours, and your husband's, and I'm about to do it again, that's how much I care for the opinion of the likes of you," She spats it all like venom. And the silliest thing is that I was not even going to say mudblood. I was going with dimwitted fool.

I end up saying nothing, because she turns again to the tree and this time there is a jolt of light coming from her hand. The next thing I know, the tree is coming down. It is much faster than I would expect, and it is coming my way. I barely have time to jump to the side, landing chest first in the grass.

"Are you bloody trying to kill me?!" I shout once I regain my breath.

When she sees I am alright, the scared look vanishes from her face and is replaced by an arrogant expression.

"It's not like we would have any witnesses," She turns back to the trunk, touches it next to the leaves and spells the thing again, this time cutting it in half. "Dead…" She whispers.

"Well, not yet, and not intending to be," I hiss, standing up. "If you think you can threat me…"

"I'm not talking about you," She cuts me off. "The tree. It's dead now, it's easier to transfigure. Living things fight you back. Objects don't. I'm so stupid for not thinking of that before!"

Yes, she is, but I suppose in the end it was a good thing, or she could have decided to transfigure our couch into this damn canoe.

I can see she is tired by the time she manages to transform half the trunk into a little rustic boat. And her attempt to float it to the water is worthless.

"Bad idea," I say when she grabs an end of the boat and starts to pull it through the grass. "Stop this nonsense."

"Will you shut up and help?"

"Just leave it, what good will do to put it on the shore today? You are too—"

"I'm not, just push it on the other end!"

I refuse to discuss with a teenager. And as I see she won't be easily dissuaded, I start pushing the thing. It is heavy and we move the canoe slowly through the grass, and even more slowly when we get to the sand. Granger is panting, grimacing, and sweating. It is not pretty to watch.

Of course it is not long before she is bleeding again. I don't say anything. I am not sure at this point if I care whether she bleeds to death. She is the one who stops, and we have barely advanced five yards. Her shirt is soaked, and when she presses her side, her fingers come up red.

"I have to…" She is pale as she starts to stagger towards the house, the canoe forgotten for now.

I follow her, because I don't think she will get there alone. Granger falters halfway, and I grab her wrist and pass her arm around my shoulders. She gets stiff, but it is obvious she has no other choice. I don't think I have either. We walk like this until we reach the porch. She weights me down, as if she is on the brink of passing out. I try to pretend I am not.

I take her to the bathroom, and ignore her solemnly when she motions for me to leave. I am tired of tiptoeing around this girl. Things will go my way now.

"Take off your shirt," I demand as she sits on the toilet.

"Just leave me."

"You are not in command, Granger, and I am tired of letting you think you are. Take off your shirt."

"You are not being nice, you know? If that's what you think. You just know I am the most valuable coin in this vault. I'm not stupid. You are not nice."

"No, I am not nice, and you are not as smart as you think you are." I take her shirt off by myself. She doesn't make it too difficult.

Merlin. The cut is worse than I thought. It is bigger, it is deeper, it is furiously red around.

"I can take care of it," Granger says through gritted teeth.

"Good work you have been doing so far," I reply sharply, getting the first aid kit. It is a sham of a kit. There is no potion or ointment to stop the bleeding or avoid an infection. All I see are bandages, some plaster and what looks like a sewing set.

"You'll have to stich me," Granger says at last, breathing through her mouth. "I tried, but I just can't do it on myself."

"What do you mean?"

"If you want to help," She takes the kit out of my hands, grabs the sewing set and rips it open. "You'll have to stich me."

"That is barbaric!"

"It is a muggle method. It'll help to close the wound." She stares at me with fierce determination. "Can you do it?"

I hesitate for a half a second. "Yes."

She bleeds through my fingers, but I manage to keep them steady.

"You're doing good," She tells me once I start, and it is the tone I strange. It is almost soothing, as if she wants to reassure me. As if she thinks I am worried. I am not. I am… not.

So maybe I am not delicate. Not as much as I could have been. Maybe I shout for her to stop whining, even though she barely makes a sound while I stitch her. Maybe I don't do my best not to live a scar. But maybe I feel like kissing the bandage after it is done to make the pain go away.

Maybe this place and this fever are driving me mad.

"Thank you," She says grudgingly once I am finished, holding my wrist. She is not bleeding anymore, but is still pale as death itself. Her eyes look bigger when I look into them. "You are burning," Granger says suddenly, the hand raising to my face without permission. It feels cold and I shiver. "You have a fever."

"It's nothing."

"You must be freezing."

"I told you it's nothing."

"You should try a cold shower."

I let out a bitter laugh. "I have been taking care of myself since before you were born."

Granger opens her mouth, and for a second I think she will quote me: _Good work you have been doing so far._ But she doesn't, and I walk away.

 **…**

* * *

Granger doesn't talk about the canoe the next day, and she doesn't stay buried in her bedroom. I make lunch and she is doing the dishes, and then she simply asks:

"Why?"

It is such an open question. Why carrots for lunch, Narcissa? Why wearing a coat in the summer? Why are you staring at me? Why did you help me yesterday? Why are we here? Why are we here together? So many becauses to this why. And yet I know exactly what she is asking.

"It was not worth it," I reply after hesitating for a moment. Honestly, I could not tell you why I answered. Maybe because I am feeling so tired today, and I sense she is too. Maybe because we have been here for five days now, and the loneliness is creeping in. Maybe because part of me just wants to say it out of a court room.

"Because your son was at risk," She says, turning to face me, drying her hands on a cloth.

"Yes," There is no point denying it.

"Was it worth when it was other people's sons in the line?" She is judging me, of course, but there is also some curiosity into it. She wants to understand me, to empathize.

"Were you a naughty kid?" The question throws her out of balance. She frowns.

"What does that have to do with…?" She stops and sighs when I arch an eyebrow. "No, I was not. I behaved well."

"Me too. I obeyed my parents. Always." I don't think she will ever know what this truly means.

"Parents are supposed to tell us right from wrong," She purses her lips at me. The dimwitted fool.

"I know."

"And when they don't, we have to figure out by ourselves."

"I know."

"You know it all."

"I thought that was you."

Granger stops. Sighs. Chuckles. It sounds bitter. The first time I went to the Dark Lord I was younger than she is now. How are we supposed to know love is right and hate is wrong when you don't know love at all? I haven't had Draco yet. I did not know anything. I was a dimwitted fool. But, oh, did I pay my price.

We don't talk again for two days. I cook. She does the dishes.

Nobody comes.

 **…**

* * *

On the eighth day, we take the bloody canoe to the water. Granger's wound looks a little better, and my fever is not the worst it has been. For a long time, Granger sits on the sand, stares at the little boat and plans.

I don't know what in the name of Merlin she plans so much. But once she decides to talk, she has a lot of tasks for us. Yes, the both of us. We cannot go anywhere in this boat without bringing water, it seems. And we should take a little food. Of course, she has to make oars. I must bring my coat and perhaps a blanket. I look cold, she thinks. We will row for an hour, then get back, if everything goes right. The next day maybe we will try going further.

I am tired and we haven't even started yet.

"Let me do it," I say, asking for the oars. It is stupid to let her row; she will only rip open the wound, and I don't feel like stitching her again.

Incredibly, she doesn't argue. I move us from the beach to high sea, but it is not long before my arms start to feel like rubber. I try to keep it up, but there is cold sweat running down my spine and between my breasts, and it is hard to breathe. I feel exhausted all the time, these days, but now I am on the brink of falling.

"It's my turn," Granger demands for the tenth time, and I don't have the strength to ignore her anymore. I cannot row, I cannot move.

"You will hurt yourself," I tell her, and we both know it is truth.

"I don't care, we have to do it sometime," She replies, and I hand her the oars. It has been eight days, after all. She is right. We have to try something or we will lose our minds.

I can see it hurts, but she doesn't stop. We advance a bit more, and Granger puts all her will on it. Then I think we reach a flow against our direction, and the girl must think the same, because she tries to row harder.

"Stop for a second, drink a little water, you will tire yourself limp," I tell her, and ignore when she glares at me.

It is obvious she is tired, though, because she retreats the oars and accepts the bottle. That is when I realize it. Because the boat never moves. Not back, not forth. It is stuck. That means, of course, that there is no flow against us.

"Granger…" I say, looking around. The beach is still around two miles away, at most. She has been rowing uselessly.

"No," She says, realizing it without needing me to say. "No!"

"There is a limit to it," I conclude, but it is just stating the obvious. "We won't go past it, as we cannot go past the woods."

"No! No, fuck, I don't believe it!" She grabs the oars again and starts slapping them furiously on the water. They make big splashes, but we don't move an inch.

"Stop this nonsense," I scold her, but there is not enough sharpness in my voice to carry the order.

"I will see what is out there! I will!"

"Stop, Granger, you're smarter than this."

"Don't tell me what to do. Maybe it's just too comfortable for you staying here, dodging the law, dodging your crappy life after your side lost the war. Maybe you like it here, don't you, away from your stupid ex-husband, your sick family, your traitor friends, who you betrayed too. You like it here, because it's easier, but I fought to have a better life and I want to be there to live it!"

If there was a target in my chest, she would have nailed a few arrows. But what does it matter? She is just a desperate girl going insane, and bloody hell, of course she is bleeding again. And it is all just sad to watch. Just too senseless and sad.

"It is enough, I don't have to hear this from you," I say coolly, but she does not stop rowing. "Maybe I am not as young as you are anymore, maybe I have already made most of my life choices, and maybe I am paying for some of them, but being here with you is not how I want to spend the rest of my _crappy life_. And I don't have to hear this from a fool that doesn't know when to stop!"

"I hate you!" She shouts, standing up and making the boat sway dangerously. "I don't know what evil God is playing this sick trick on me, but I don't deserve it! I don't fucking deserve it!"

I grab her wrist and pull her down before she turns the boat and drops us both. She tries to pull free, but I don't let her.

The canoe sways as we she fumbles after the oars and I try to stop this madness. I hold Granger from the back, locking her arms by her sides and pulling her to myself. She tries to wiggle off of me, but we are both too exhausted. So exhausted. I don't even know the moment she gives up. I just keep my grasp as tight as I can.

The oars are on the water now, but I don't care. I can always swim after them later. I know now they won't go far. And Granger just feels warm against me, and warmth is an expensive commodity in my world these days. She may hate me, but to that I am used. It is not reason enough to let go.

We are so tired. We lay down on that tiny stupid boat, I am still holding her. Is she crying? Yes. Yes, she is sobbing so hard she shivers in my arms. Am I crying? No. But I don't let go. It gets dark and I don't let go.

 **...**

* * *

 **So, I wrote this for the best friend in the world as a birthday present, 'cause she is such a Cissamione die-hard fan, and all but very persuasive. And now she made me post it, even though I'm afraid no one but her will like (or lie that liked it, for that matter).**

 **Anyway, it's 3 chapters short, so we're already 33% there.**

 **See you soon ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**The rating changed.**

 **Thank you all for the lovely reviews :)**

 **...**

* * *

The next days, we walk. It is a slow and difficult process for the both of us, be we do it. First the woods, marking every tree we pass by only to come to the conclusion there are not many of them. As suspected, if we walk to the right, we come by the left, and vice-versa. Moving forward drives us to the rear.

"It's like walking through the Petit Prince's asteroid," She mutters one afternoon. I don't understand, and don't ask for an explanation either.

The same happens, of course, when we walk by the beach, but it is infinitely more pleasurable. The sun kisses my skin, and Granger's hair is blown by the wind until it turns into a big brown mess. We don't talk about the canoe abandoned on the shore; we almost don't talk at all.

Today we don't walk; there is nowhere else to go. This fact takes a toll on me, yes, but I sense it takes a bigger one on her. The dark circles around her eyes grow deeper each morning, and her voice grows huskier.

"Come on," She murmurs to a glass of water. "Come on." Granger closes her eyes, holding the cup in her two hands.

Well, there is also this. The time inside the house she spends practicing spells without the wand. The girl is tireless, but watching her break glass after glass is really the only appointment on my agenda today.

There is a little trepidation and the glass is full of light for a split second. When it dissolves, the water became a dark red liquid. Granger opens her eyes and stares at her achievement in disbelief for a second, before raising the cup to her lips.

"In your face, Jesus!" She whispers after sipping the wine, and I find myself chuckling unwillingly. She raises her head to look at me and there is a smile on her face. It is the first one I have ever seen.

The moment fades quickly.

"Let me see it," I extend a hand and she passes me the cup. I sip the watery wine, the alcohol tingling on my tongue. "It is barely past vinegar," I say before taking another sip.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'll work on a Merlot," She deadpans, while I rest against the living room armchair and cross my legs.

"Cabernet Sauvignon, if you may," I tell her, drinking a little more. It does taste awful, but wine has always made me warm inside.

Granger goes to the kitchen and brings back a full jar, which she lays on the center table. There she is again; closed eyes, hands in place, and that determined expression on her face, like nothing around would dare not to bend to her will. That is when I know the spell is going to work.

And it does.

It also tastes a little better this time.

Granger never acknowledges she is tired after these sessions of natural magic, but every time she has to stop after three or four spells that work, her eyes heavy with sleep.

Today she stops with the jar and fetches a glass to accompany me in empting it. For some time, we drink while reading in silence. But Merlin help me if those are not books boredom itself wrote when it was bored.

"You are not an auror, like your friends," I say at some point. There is no goal in the sentence, but she is the only living thing here to address, and I have had over three glasses of cheap wine by now.

"No, but we work in the same department," The answer comes easily, as if she has given it multiple times before. Her eyes never even leave the book.

"You are the head of the department, I heard."

"You heard right." Still looking at the book.

"Why not an auror?" I insist.

"Why a Death Eater?" She spats back, finally glancing up. That developed quickly. Granger sighs and shakes her head, like she doesn't expect an answer.

Well, lucky her, I am just bored enough to give one.

"Many people I was not used to question told me it was the right thing to be," I say before refilling my glass. "Once I was in, it became nearly impossible to get out." I don't bother saying I was never truly a Death Eater. I may not have a mark, but does it really matter? Sometimes I like to take comfort and I tell myself that it does, therefore I was not like the others who were marked. Other times, I knew it didn't. Looking at the haunted face in front of me, it didn't matter at all.

"I'm betting you didn't try too hard."

"Oh, of course, I am no Severus Snape, am I?" I snarl, shaking my hand. "The man helps the Dark Lord to kill the woman he loves, then he is miserable enough to believe his life is forever cursed and he is not afraid to risk it anymore. So touching."

"You're being disrespectful."

"I am being honest!" I almost bark back. "I was afraid, everybody was afraid. I made a mistake that was too hard to correct. Then he was gone and I did my best to erase what I could from that part of my life. To start over."

"You're a liar! I know you kept dark objects in your house for years and once Voldemort was back, you—"

"I begged Lucius to run. I begged him on my knees, and when he said no, I prepared myself to go after Draco, but… He convinced me it would be silly. That we would be found, that we would be hunted and killed. We wouldn't last a month, Lucius said, and I knew he was right. I was scared. For myself, for my son, I was scared."

There is a silence after I shut my mouth. I don't know if everything I have just said is the truth or a big emotional lie to wrap around this girl. For any of the options, I don't have much of an excuse. But tonight, as we stand in this room with the waves crashing outside, the idea of her hate churns my guts more than the fever.

I don't know who I am anymore.

"You know," She starts, putting the book down. "I grew up with your son. You did a crappy job as a mother. Or maybe you just didn't have much good material to work with."

In a blink of an eye, I am standing and gripping her arm so hard my fingers deepen in her skin.

"You won't talk about my son."

"Then you won't talk about being scared," She says through gritted teeth. "Not to me, you fucking coward. Not to the woman you locked in your house and let your sister torture. Not to someone who lost loved ones because your parents didn't teach you and you didn't teach your son what it is to be a good person. You won't talk to me about fear. It's no excuse, it's just garbage. You're just garbage."

"You know the pride you take to say it?" I grin, and it almost splits my face in two. "You will grow out of it. You will learn to admit your own fear. I have learned to smell it. It is all over you right now."

"I am not afraid of you!"

"No, not of me, of course. But of everything else. Because I am the only one here. We are alone, and nobody is coming. You think of it at night, and you can't sleep. You wonder if you can someday forgive me. If you can understand me enough to even like me, because I am all you have got. I am your family and your friend and your partner and your other half. I am everything to you, and you are so afraid of this it stinks the whole house."

She is very still for a moment, even when I let go. Every word struck true. I can read it in her eyes. I hope she cannot read in mine the reason I know all of this is because it is happening to me too. Almost two weeks and not a sign of life. Were we abandoned?

"I will get out of here if it is the last thing I do," She states, those brown eyes burning mine. I hear the truth again, it is clear as a bell.

"I know you will. I am talking about all the things you will do before that." I get back to the armchair, to the wine. My heart is thumping in my ears and I feel hot and dizzy. It is the alcohol, but it is also the fever. It has been getting worst.

"There is this game muggle kids play," She says with a bitter chuckle. "Who would you take to a desert island? You are supposed to choose one of your mates, or maybe your little crush, or your favorite celebrity. You are supposed to pick one person in the whole world." There is a void in her stare, and it could suck me dry. "I am not saying you are the last person I would choose… But you're close."

Then she leaves me alone with the wine.

* * *

 **…**

I don't leave the bed the next day. I believe the girl thinks I am hungover. Poor child. The day half a jar of wine leaves me bedridden, I will know true shame.

It was not the wine. I just lack the energy to move. By the beginning of the afternoon she comes to see if I am alright.

"Do you need anything?" She asks by the door. Is she relieved to find me awake? Alive?

"No."

Either way, half an hour later she brings me lunch. The broccoli is undercooked and the fish is salty, but I try not to make a face as she watches me eat. I don't know if she did it on purpose, but I won't give her the pleasure to see me complain.

"You are sick, aren't you?" She asks when I put the plate aside.

"I am fine."

"Your cheeks are red all the time, you're always wearing a coat, even if it is not cold." Granger splays a hand on my forehead and nods as if her point is proven. "This fever is taking too long to go away."

"I told you I am fine."

"Are you wounded? It could be an infection."

"I am not."

"Is your throat sore? Your stomach hurts?"

"Stop it, Granger. Take care of yourself."

"I feel well. My wound is closing."

"Good for you, now go work on that Cabernet Sauvignon."

She frowns, looking intently at me for a moment, then leaves the room. But the night brings her back – with supper, Merlin help me.

This time she sits on the edge of the mattress while I eat – the soup tastes like lightly crab-scented water – and wets her lips a few times before actually saying anything.

"What do you think is happening out there?"

It is useless to pretend I have not been thinking about it too. The fact someone took all this trouble to kidnap and keep us makes less sense every day that nobody uses us to accomplish anything. If they were negotiating our release, by now we would be free – or dead.

"Maybe the people who took us died without revealing our location," I suggest casually, as if I am talking about the weather. Granger nods.

"I thought about that too. It's a crap development for us, but part of me hopes for it. It means our side won." I don't think she realizes she just put me in the same team as her. Last night I was garbage, but today I am garbage in her trash can. "And I'm sure Harry and Ron would keep looking, anyway. They would."

 _Not if they think you are dead._

I don't say it, but I don't have to. She stands and takes the plate away. Then she comes back as I prepare myself to sleep – what I did most of the day.

"Here, let's see if this works," She says before laying a cold and damp cloth on my forehead. "It should help to low your temperature."

"For Merlin's mercy, Granger…"

"Raise your head," She demands, as if I have not said a word, and stuffs another damp cloth under my nape. It makes intense chills run down my spine. Her face turns preoccupied. "I'm sorry, I know it is uncomfortable."

I wonder if that is just why she is doing it. In seconds, I am cold from head to toe, shivering as the fever breaks, and then sweating like a bottle in the sun. Granger changes the cloths a few times, renewing the cycle of torture under my mute complaints.

"It's lowering, I think," I hear her say in the distance. My eyes refuse to remain open. There is warmth in my face and I turn my head in that direction, wanting to suck it in. "Are you ok?" I brush my lips against the source of heat, finding the softness of skin, the smell of soap, the food for loneliness. "Mrs. Malfoy, are you ok?"

 _I am Narcissa_ , I try to say, but it comes out, "I am alone."

"No, I'm here." I don't open my eyes to verify. I am afraid it is a lie. "I'm here."

It all feels like a feverish dream, but in the morning she is there still; yellow pajamas by my side on the bed.

* * *

 **…**

"It looks good, right?"

I glance up, not sure if this remark is some kind of mockery. It does not look good; it looks like a piece of poorly patched up rag. But it is a piece of her abdomen.

"I mean, it's closing. The redness around it is almost gone, and it isn't even swollen anymore," Granger goes on, as I restart cleaning the stitches.

Yes, she is right about all that, and she has not bled in days, but it is still a barbaric method. I cover it the fastest I can, wrapping her middle in cleansed bandages. Once we are done, she thanks me a little less stiffly than usual and follows me to the kitchen.

It is late afternoon and I start dinner absent-mindedly. Granger sits at the table and practices spells, making random objects float all around the kitchen. A few of them don't make all the way from the cabinet to the table, but I do not jump anymore to the sound of crashing glass.

I restore one cup with a casual gesture; yes, the littlest things I manage, at this point, but trying to go any further than that is to ask for a migraine. Our magics dance their little dance in that tiny kitchen. It is, I believe, our way to be aware of each other.

I cook, she does the dishes. Most of it without using her hands.

"What is your plan?" I ask once she is finished. Drops of sweat line up on her forehead. It is still tiring.

"I will make myself stronger until I can search around for isolating spells," She replies, propping her hip against the sink.

"Those are complex spells to make, and even more to break."

Granger tilts her head, those brown eyes analyzing me for a moment, before she says, "All I have is time."

We are silent again; other thing that is now as familiar as my own voice. Or hers. I scavenge my brain in search of something to postpone the moment I dread. There is nothing. She opens her mouth to say goodnight, but that is not what comes out.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Yes." Is it the truth? Is it a lie? Will it postpone the moment a little longer? "No."

"Yes or no?" She smirks, arches an eyebrow. Tries to look friendly. Maybe she dreads the moment too.

"I was wondering if you could heat my bedroom," I was not. At least not the way she understands it.

"Changing temperature is a sensible thing, but I can try."

"I would appreciate it."

We walk together to my room, to my small, cozy room. It turns into a whole wing every time I am alone in it. But tonight it is small and cozy. I close the door, the windows, the curtains. Granger feels the walls with her bare hands, whispering to herself.

It is not long before a wave of warmth envelopes the atmosphere. It is a little vaporous, it smells like the sea and feels like a hug.

"Is it good?"

I only nod, sitting on the edge of the bed and eyeing her for a long moment. Granger approaches me and her hands land on my shoulders like they belong there.

"Can I try on you?" She asks, her fingers pressing my shoulder blades. "To balance your body temperature."

"You could end up baking me from the inside out," I tell her, but surprisingly, it is not a no.

"I won't," Is all she says.

If I shake my head, she will be out of the door, out of my sight. The moment I dread. I nod. Her fingertips grow hot over my coat, until their heat meets my flesh. There is a sparkle in the pit of my stomach, but it is barely there before it is gone.

"Did it work?" She looks into my eyes as if to read the answer.

"Sit down for a moment, you are tired."

"It didn't," She sighs. She sits. Her disappointment is like an aura.

"Maybe in a couple hours," I throw the card recklessly. "You may lay down a little."

We stare at the ceiling while outside a thunder roars.

"It's going to rain," She muses, glancing at me. It will be the first time since we got here. Suddenly the whole house feels intangible. This bed is all the land we can claim. Out of here is the dark and the profound solitude of the dead. Lately I came to believe that to be alive is to be acknowledged. Away from Granger, I am lifeless. The moment I dread.

The rain starts to pour. For a second. For a year.

"Tomorrow is my birthday," She says. "I think so, at least."

"I will make you a cake."

"You don't have to."

"I think I can make the time."

"It's silly. I don't know why I told you this. It's not important."

"Chocolate or vanilla?" I ask, my eyes leaving the ceiling for a brief second, spying her tense expression. The cake is not important. The birthday is not important. She is not important.

Not important, only everything.

"Chocolate."

* * *

 **…**

I bake the cake, and she produces another jar of wine. It is not Sauvignon, but help me Merlin if I don't taste a Cabernet.

"We don't have any candles," I tell her as we stare at the cake in the living room's center table.

"I don't believe in having wishes granted, anyway."

"Are you not too sceptic for your age?"

"Perhaps," Granger looks at me. "What would you ask?"

"It is not my birthday."

"No, and we wouldn't have candles if it was. I'm just making conversation."

"You would ask to find a way out of here."

"Of course, wouldn't you too?"

"No."

She frowns, but I don't offer any more information. I cut the cake and I could not tell you why, but it is the best cake I have ever baked. Granger actually makes a sound once she tastes it. It is a small, deep sound. It is a moan.

I feel like grinning, all of a sudden.

"You would wish for Draco to be safe," She announces suddenly, like that is a charade she spent the last hour trying to crack. "He was there the day we were taken. You are worried something happened to him."

She is so right I want to deny it all.

"Draco is fine," I whisper, serving her more cake. "I would know if he were not."

Granger looks at me doubtfully, but does not argue.

"I think about Harry, too," Another piece of cake in her mouth. No moans this time. "But he is a really good auror. Whatever happened, I'm sure he escaped."

"He _is_ famous for his surviving skills," I shrug, and Grander giggles. Today she is full of new sounds.

"You didn't wish me a happy birthday," The sentence comes more curious than accusingly.

"It would be pointless," I start to collect the plates and the tableware.

"It is polite, is all I'm saying." She follows me down to the kitchen.

"I wish you a happy birthday, Granger."

"You can call me Hermione."

"I wish you a happy birthday, Hermione," I comply, holding in a sigh. "Happy?"

"No. You were right. It was pointless."

We stare at each other.

"I wish you have many happy birthdays to compensate this one."

"It is also pointless," She makes a cabinet door slam shut behind me. "Everything is pointless."

"Close your eyes."

"Why? We don't even have candles!"

"Close them," I demand, and she obeys. I cannot have her losing her way like this, it is too dangerous in this situation. Once we are lost, we might never again be found.

I step closer and kiss her on the lips. Her eyes fly open, but she does not back away. Granger knows all she will get is what I have to give her.

And I am everything I have to give her. Luckily, for now I will be all she needs.

"You do the dishes," I say against her mouth, and we break apart.

She does.

* * *

 **…**

It is sunny again and we have lunch outside, on the beach. Hermione floats the canoe upside down and it serves as a table. We sit on the sand and have sandwiches and juice while the sea sings to us.

"You really like it, don't you?" She questions, half a sandwich in her hand. "The beach, I mean."

"It reminds me of somewhere."

"A happy somewhere."

"Not necessarily," I say, meeting her stare. "But somewhere I was happy for some time, yes."

"Tell me about it," She asks, lying down. Her hair will be full of sand.

"An island in Spain, a place called Ibiza," I lay by her side. My hair will be full of sand. "I used to spend summers there as a teenager. The bluest ocean I had ever seen. It looked like this one, I suppose, but it felt different."

"Different how?"

"Infinite," I say without thinking. "My sister Andromeda would charm both of us with the bubble-head, and we went scuba-diving."

"Sounds fun," She whispers to the sky. I feel her hand moving on the sand and I know what it is looking for even before it reaches mine. I don't know if she is comforting me or herself.

"Where is the place you were the happiest?" I question, not exactly because I want to know, but because it seems fair to let her go there for a moment too.

"Hogwarts, of course."

"Of course."

She chuckles lightly, then stops too soon. My hand is pressed against her lips when I am not expecting it. I don't know how she feels, but suddenly I want to. I close my eyes and imagine what taste do I have in her tongue; her tongue that barely brushes my wrist. What is she feeling? Why is she doing it? Does she want more?

I don't know the answers, but those are the best questions I have asked myself in sometime. Is she giving me a little of herself or taking a little of me? Is there any difference between these things, at this point?

"Did you know the Room of Requirement?" She asks, her mouth moving against my palm to form the words.

"I don't think so."

"In the seventh floor, the left corridor."

"Oh," I grin. "The Come and Go Room."

"Yes," Hermione stops, breaths into my hand. "What did you use it for?" I don't answer, and she sneers. "Yes, just what I thought."

I am grinning wider.

"What form did it take for you?"

"A beach," I lie in a soft voice. "With a blue ocean, warm sand, woods in the distance. It was always sunny, it smelled like coconuts, and the girls always loved it."

She smiles against my hand, sighs. "Thanks," She murmurs. "Thank you for that."

* * *

 **…**

We don't sleep apart anymore. One night she just follows me when I say goodnight, and tucks herself in the left side of the bed. I don't question it, not on that first night, not in any night that comes after.

I have been sleeping better.

"Why are you still feverish?" She asks, as we are lying in bed and her hand comes up to my forehead. "I have tried everything."

"It is ok," I tell her. The days here don't demand much effort, and if the fever makes me tired and slow, well, Hermione never complains.

"Maybe it's emotional," She suggests, and I feel her expectant eyes waiting for my reaction.

"Maybe you cut yourself that first morning when you woke up in a strange place," I reply, turning on my side to stare at her. "Did you? Do you auto mutilate?"

She narrows her eyes. "You always make fun of serious things."

"Do I?" I don't avert my eyes, but I wonder when will she find out the aligned scars on the inside of my thighs.

"I don't mutilate myself," Hermione whispers, her fingertips playing across my face. She touches me for a few seconds, a homeopathic treatment that has been working so far. Then we go to sleep.

* * *

 **…**

There are three colors in her hair; brown for the most, golden where the sun touched it, and white hidden amongst her curls, like the tears she doesn't let me see.

When the second month comes and goes, Hermione has perfected her magic to levels I can only dream of. It is not enough, howsoever, to identify any spells that is keeping us here. For a week, she has been trying to build a broom, but I cannot let her take it to a high fly. I just cannot take the chance she will fall.

This morning I wake up to the sound of the shower, as it is almost every morning. Every move is mechanic as I get up, put on my robe and walk to the kitchen to start breakfast. Then I stop.

The cabinets are full again. Last night they were half empty; today they are full. I don't know how long I stand staring, but it is enough for Hermione to walk in. She halts behind me, as we try to make sense of the senseless.

Did somebody come? Were we not forgotten, then? Are we here for an even longer run? I could make a thousand questions, but I will not find an answer.

I don't try to stop her when Hermione wreaks havoc on the house to find any piece of evidence I already know will not be there. I make breakfast, I sit, I wait. Until she is finished, until she broke and mended things, until she tired herself with the broom, until she gets hoarse trying to convince me it is secure for us to try flying away. I wait, I wait and I wait.

And then I kiss her.

It is different this time from the first one, although it is the same. It is the same medicine, but it is a different dosage. It is life or death for the both of us. It is everything, but I don't know if it is enough.

She parts her lips for me, and I kiss her. My mouth trails through her jaw line, then finds hers again. My tongue invites itself in, and Hermione welcomes it. Nothing else exists, only her, is what I want her to understand. Nothing else exists but me. Why worry? I am the universe and I am here. She is the universe, and I will kiss her.

"Your lips were made for kissing," I moan against her face, and she locks my tongue again with hers.

We kiss so much my lips become sore. It feels so good my heart wants to groan when I think of the full cabinet. I have months more of kissing. The thought vanishes when we are not kissing, so we kiss more. She tastes as sweet as any obsession would.

* * *

 **…**

In the end, it is very simple: I tell her to spell the broom to fly alone. Hermione does not want to, although it is clear my suggestion only makes sense.

"It could fly away out of reach, and I would have to make another," She argues as we have lunch.

"If it happens, then it is because you cannot control the broom. We will not fly a broom you cannot control."

"It is easier to control if I am sitting on it than with a spell."

"You are better with spells than you are guiding a broom," I know this as I know most things about her now.

"We will fly over the sea, at maximum we will fall in the water and swim back."

"I don't want you to get hurt. Your wound just closed for good, and you are still sore."

"I am fine, but you have been feverish for two whole months. Do you have any idea of what that can do to your organism?"

"Hermione, it will not work," I say at last. I am too tired for this.

"You don't know that."

"We both know that."

"I can't not try, Narcissa."

We finish lunch, she does the dishes, and then goes outside. It pains me not to be by her side for the smallest of moments, but I do not follow her to the beach.

I hear a little exclamation and the sound of something cutting the air. She comes back half an hour later, wet from the sea. I open my arms to her. My universe. My obsession.

* * *

 **…**

I cook. She does the dishes.

A week later, I can make her laugh again.

* * *

 **…**

Her hand on my breast, the nipple becoming hard under her touch. I hear her breath catching, and I grin, my stomach contracting. I try to call her, but her fingers interrupt me by sliding down my abdomen, trespassing my belly button until they reach my pubis. My body softens; it is a kind of surrender cry.

I don't think she knows her fingers on my venter causes a moist wave nearby. All I want is her fingers on me. The mere idea causes me to moan, and Hermione looks at me with surprise. She is curious.

We stare at each other. There is hunger in her brown eyes, and I want to feed it without ending it. She feels me in her fingertips, and I let the sensation overcome all else.

There is nothing more than this. I moan when she finds the right spot and massages it, before going to look for the wettest point.

"Is it here you like?"

"Use your both hands."

She likes to learn. And something about the discovery aura around her, her curiosity, her fumbling ways – something about her putts me off of myself. Until it feels so good I cry out, shivering. Until I bite my lip and cut myself. Until all I can think about is this, now.

There is nothing more than this.

She pulls me closer when I ease down, looking at me as if I am a demon that came to tempt her by sundown. She kisses me like I have not been kissed before. I let her have me, I could not deny her if I wanted to. I am moaning in her mouth with any caress, I am burning myself in her mouth.

"Let me show you," I beg into her lips.

"What?"

"Everything."

I am everything. Hermione nods, and I undress her. Each inch of her skin is different under my tongue. Her chin, her neck, the curve of her breasts. When I mouth a nipple, she grabs my hair.

The noises she makes me will someday drive me mad.

I turn her on her back, our skins gluing, merging into each other. I kiss the line of her spine, raising chills I want to drink. Up under her thighs, my hand, and her hands that seize the sheets desperately.

My tongue finding way inside. She is groaning nonsenses.

On her back again, Hermione's eyes set mine into flames. Our hips meet to explode into a climax that leaves me on the brink of unconsciousness. I lay on her chest for two lives and more.

"We were not supposed to be happy here, were we?" She mumbles into my hair.

I am glad she has learned to lie.

My universe. My obsession. My love.

* * *

 **…**

One day I wake up in an empty bed.

* * *

 **…**

She is nowhere to be found.

* * *

 **…**

I am alone.


	3. Chapter 3

There's a hand on my wrist, it's not a hand I know, but I grab it before I'm even fully awake, because part of me knows I can't lose the chance to grab myself into reality.

"Hermione!"

The voice I know, I know I know it, though I can't figure out why my brain takes so long to identify it, to link the voice to a face, the face to a feeling, the feeling to memories, the memories to my life.

"Ron," I whisper, although my intention is to shout.

"Oh, Merlin, thank you! Hermione… It's me. It is. I can't believe you woke up."

"You found us," My throat feels dry, and my eyes can barely see through the white light right above me.

"I… What?"

"Is she ok?"

"Who?"

"Narcissa," I try to sit, but it is impossible to lift a head that weights a ton. "Mrs. Malfoy. Is she ok?"

"Oh… Ahm, I guess. Hey, don't try to sit, it's ok. Look, I should tell everyone you woke up. Bloody hell, we were so worried about you!"

"What happened?" I question to an empty bedroom, because I hear Ron's steps crossing out the door, living me alone.

 **…**

* * *

It is all white in this room, and it smells aseptic enough to make my stomach turn; every time I wake up expecting the salty scent of the beach, and every time the lack of it throws me out of balance. I have been dousing off and waking up a lot, but the healer said it is to be expected, and I am lucid all the time I am awake.

"We did catch all of them, that much we did," Harry says one afternoon, sitting on the armchair by the bed I can barely leave. "Not that there was much to catch. They were only three; two of Rockwood sons, and Rosier. It was a suicidal mission; I guess we were just not counting on it. Rosier exploded himself, bloody hell."

He grabs my hand and presses it on his both, and for a moment it all feels very strange because Harry is not prone to comforting gestures.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione."

"It was not your fault," I tell him, pressing his hand back.

It was not Harry's fault, and I had not the worst luck. Alecto Carrow and Dolohov died in the explosion, since they were the ones next to Rosier on the bench of witnesses. I was injured by a shrapnel, and was in a coma for some time, but now I'm here again.

 **…**

* * *

"At first, I didn't understand," Healer Thompson smirks, running a hand through his gray hair, what always makes him look younger and more friendly, what I guess might be the point. "You were hit in the abdomen by a large piece of wood, a shrapnel from the explosion."

"Yes, Ron has told me," _It struck your liver, almost split it in half, it was a real bloody mess, Hermione!_

"Well, that would be simple enough to heal, once we got the shrapnel out, but the real problem was, it had merged with your liver," His blue eyes widen a little as he says it, and I can't avoid thinking the whole thing was just very interesting to him. "It was still working, though badly, and not enough to maintain your body functioning properly. On the other hand, we couldn't just take it off!"

"How could it have merged with my liver? It was a shrapnel; it was not enchanted or anything!"

"Yes! Yes, that was exactly the question I was making myself! Over and over again, without an answer. I kept thinking: _oh, Mark, if you could only actually see what happened!_ " He laughs at that, the hand going through his hair again, as I glance to a chucking Ron in the armchair.

 _Cuckoo_ , Ron mouths to me, smiling; he has been smiling a lot.

"It was your friend who suggested the pensieve. Mr. Potter. Smart boy, right? Of course, that we all know already. He collected the memories himself, too, from everybody there! Oh, I visited the mind of so many!"

I am getting tired and Ron notices it in an instant, coming closer to adjust my pillows; his closeness is scary, mostly because I know it should be comforting.

"Basically, we found out you were attacked by a stray spell in the confusion, fell down the bleaches and broke your arm. Your right arm, the wand arm, so of course you tried to cure yourself right away. That's when the explosion happened," Ron hurries with the story, to Healer Thompson clear disappointment. I guess he sees I won't last long before drowsing off again, and I really want to know; I need to. "So, you were healing yourself when the shrapnel hit. It merged into you."

I wet my lips, for a moment searching for the memories, trying to find inside my head the images that will confirm what they are telling me. I can't find them, not in my head, but my body carries all the proof I need; I'm still sore inside, although there is not even a scar anymore.

"That's why I was in a coma," I conclude lowly. "Because my liver didn't work and you didn't know how to fix it."

"Well, not quite!" Thompson shakes his head. "We could have kept you awake by filtering your blood magically. Of course, it would probably be uncomfortable, since there was a big piece of wood sticking out of your ribs that we could not remove, but… You would be conscious."

"But you just said I was out for weeks," I look at Ron for corroboration. There is a pained look on his face, as if he can't even remember those days without hurting, although I haven't been awake for forty-eight hours yet.

"And you were, but that was not because of your liver," The healer gives me a soothing smile. "From what I have observed of the memories, the shrapnel didn't knock you out. You are a fighter, young miss!"

"You got a _stupefy_ right in the head," Ron sums up.

"A _stupefy_? _Stupefy_?" I raise my voice, making him wince. "I was in coma for weeks because you couldn't be bothered to rennervate me?!"

"We tried!" Ron replies, throwing his hands in the air. "Bloody hell, we tried everything, Hermione!"

"I guess we will never be completely sure, Ms. Granger," Thompson tells me in a calm tone, resting his hand over mine. "But it is my theory that all the attacks you suffered in a small period of time weakened your organism enough for you not to have the strength to get your conscience back. That was it."

Until Harry suggested they transplanted me a new liver, instead of trying to figure out how to separate my old one from a piece of furniture. A transplant, like in the muggle way, and, well, here I am.

 **…**

* * *

The first one I tell is Ginny; I guess in the end it's more luck than anything that she is the one in the room when it finally explodes out of me. I think I will go insane if I spend one more day without mentioning it, without saying her name, without knowing more.

"Harry says you two were side by side when you were rescued," She tells me in a sweet voice, like she wants very hard to assure me she doesn't think I'm insane. "Because you fell out of the bleachers while she was getting out of stand, it seems. So, I don't know, she might have been the last person you saw before being knocked out. That is a strong thing. Maybe your brain just held on to that while you were in a coma."

"So you think I was dreaming," The words almost don't come out, and Ginny frowns at me, looking confused.

"What do _you_ think, sweetie?"

I shake my head, change the subject and swallow the throb in my throat, because I don't know what to think.

 **…**

* * *

I do find out she is in a room two doors away from mine, one afternoon, after I have a little time alone between the visits and can extract the information from a nurse. Two doors away, and still in a coma, it seems; things have not been changing for her and the healers don't know what else to try anymore.

That night I tiptoe through St. Mungus' dark corridor and open silently the door to Narcissa's bedroom. For the last three days I almost lost my mind with the absence of her; but what I feel watching her knocked out in that bed almost sucks my sanity too. I can't feel this way for a woman I only dreamed about for two weeks, although deep in my brain I know that is the logical explanation.

But my brain is not everything within me; there is a heart that recognizes her all too well. The color of her hair, the shape of her mouth, the texture of her hands; I wouldn't know any of this if I had been dreaming. My own mind could never reproduce so exactly the reality of this woman. It just cannot be; I cannot accept it for a comatose fantasy. Her crude words, her grin, her deep voice; Merlin, her kisses, her scent, her feverish skin.

Her… feverish… I touch Narcissa's forehead, and my heart sinks with the expectation that she'll open her eyes and fix that blue stare on me until I shiver. She doesn't, though, she doesn't move, but her forehead… yes, this feels the same, so hot it can burn my hand. Unnaturally hot, because she has a fever, a fever I have tried my best to heal and failed, because on this side of reality her body is perishing.

"Come back to me," I whisper by her ear. "Please, Narcissa. Come back to me. I don't need you anymore, but I want you. Isn't that much more powerful? Please. Please."

 **…**

* * *

Harry is reluctant to provide me the memories, I'm not sure why – maybe Ginny told him about Narcissa and now he is worried I can't move on. I lost two weeks of my life because of the attack in that court room, is what they think, but I know the truth; I won two months in a desert island with the strangest woman I ever met.

In the end, I win, and assure him I will be fine, and that it is only fair that I can get to straight up in my head the details of what happened. It is not a lie; to know without actually remembering is very disturbing and I need to see for my own.

I watch the trial a thousand times, and although generally I can concentrate so well in what I'm doing, if I have a goal, in this case I just keep losing myself in the image of a walking, talking Narcissa. You see, the woman in that stand talks, moves, watches and breathes like the woman I met. I know the power of my own brain, but I'm every time more convinced that I could not come up with her like this. We were together on that island, and what is killing me now is to think right this moment she is still there, alone.

 **…**

* * *

I visit her at night; it is the only time I know nobody will interrupt me. I can't face Draco or Lucius Malfoy, I can't stay in a room with them and talk about Narcissa, sharing stories, and not only because they would think I am crazy, but because I'm sure I don't know the same woman they knew. She has multiple faces, and she has one that is just for myself.

Usually night visits are forbidden, but stay two weeks in coma with a piece of wood sticking out your body and suddenly the nurses just have sympathy for you! Enough, at least, to let me sneak into Narcissa's bedroom for an hour or two, before the sun rises.

"You were trying to help me," I tell her, my fingers drawing small circles in her feverish wrist. "When the shrapnel struck, I was bleeding badly, and getting a little desperate, to be honest, then you knelt down and tried to close the wound. You couldn't, because the wood had merged with my liver, but of course none of us knew that," I sigh, searching her face for a sign that she is listening, but there is nothing. "When you saw it was not working, you used your hands to try and stop the bleeding. I know now how good you are with your hands… You know, you probably saved my life. More than once."

Just because I know I was on that beach with Narcissa, it doesn't mean I don't understand it was in a kind of astral plan. It all makes a lot of sense; the wound on my side that hurt so bad, her fever that would never go away, the fact we didn't have wands, the food that never ended, the lack of other signs of life… Our brains fabricating a context for what our bodies were going through, while our consciences played together elsewhere. Until we were strong enough to come back.

"Come back," I ask her, pressing her hand to my lips. "Come back and we will go to Ibiza together. We'll go scuba-diving. Please. You are not my everything anymore, but I want you. Come back."

 **…**

* * *

"You have to stop this," Ginny says, while Harry stands in the back of the room, a guilty look on his face. "We are all worried about you, sweetie. Please, let us help."

"I am fine, you don't have to worry."

"You are obsessed with what happened. We are not saying we don't understand, right, Harry?" She looks over her shoulder to her boyfriend, and he nods dutifully. "We understand, but we want to help you to move on."

"Look, Ginny, I know you don't believe me, but I think I finally got it…"

"I talked to Thompson," Harry interrupts me. "And with a muggle doctor too, just to have a second opinion, you know. They both said it is very normal for patients that have been into a coma to wake up with memories in their heads… with pieces of realities that are not… Look, I mean, you were being poisoned by your own body, you know?"

"It was not a dream, it was not a hallucination, if you would just listen to me!" I shout, making both of them jump a little. I immediately feel like apologizing, but I don't; I know they are trying to help, but they are not being helpful at all, only condescending.

"Hermione…" Ginny starts again, carefully.

"No, stop. Listen for a moment." I take a deep breath, looking them both in the eye, before I have the guts to start. "I figured it out. You are right, I have been a little obsessed, but it was the only way I had to understand everything, and I think I did. Thompson himself told me what put me in a coma was a _Stunner Spell_. Well, I don't know if you know, but the _Stunner Spell_ steals conscience, what means it takes your awareness and drives it somewhere else. We usually don't remember where at all when we come to ourselves again, like a dream that you forget when you wake up, but I have been there for two weeks and I remember the place!"

"A place that happened to be also habited by Narcissa Malfoy," Ginny points out, raising a ginger eyebrow.

"It was not by chance, as you may think. We were hit by the same spell. I don't mean the same kind of spell. I mean exactly the same one. It hit her first, then rebounded to me, the very same one!"

They look at me with the same expressions they used to make in front of the Transfiguration homework.

"Our consciousnesses were taken by the same spell to the same place," I say at last. "That is why we were there together. Our brains filled the blanks of this parallel place. Maybe she created the beach, and I created the muggle first aid kit. Maybe she made it sunny, and I made it rain. I don't know! But we were there, and we were there together."

They are very quiet for a moment, as if trying to come up with the next argument to dismiss my crazy thoughts. But even if they manage, they won't convince me, because I am sure of what I lived, of what I felt, and now I have a solid theory behind it.

"Here," I step closer to Harry and drop a small bottle to his hand. "You can take the memories back; I don't need them anymore. You can go on and check for yourself everything I just told you. You can go and ask Andromeda Tonks if she and her sister used to spend vacations in Ibiza. You can ask Lucius if Narcissa has this birth mark on her lower back that looks like a crescent. You can do whatever you want to convince yourself I am not going crazy, but Harry, you cannot convince _me_ that I am."

 **…**

* * *

I now visit her anytime I want, and not even Draco is against it. He looks at me with a mix of desperation and hope every time I step into the room, like my presence will change anything, but so far it hasn't.

Sometimes we even talk, but it is awkward and distant – the only thing that connects us is the fact we miss too much the woman lying on this bed, refusing to wake up.

When the stupefy hit us, Narcissa thumped her cervix into the corner of a metal table, suffering a head trauma that released a serious cerebral hemorrhage. She was almost dead when she got to the hospital, and by the time a potion was able to contain the internal bleeding, she had gotten an infection.

You would think none of this would be too difficult to wizardry, but the healers still get caught up with the smallest things, while solving the big ones in a blink of an eye. The wizard world never makes complete sense, but Narcissa's case is its own mystery anyway, because now she should be fine.

I wonder if the fact I was too weak to come back held her there with me for longer than necessary; if an unconscious desire to stay away from this world made her body fight against the medication. I wonder a lot of things, these days.

"Narcissa," I whisper by her ear. "There is a thing I've been meaning to ask you. Really, I can't sleep anymore, because I keep thinking about it and it will drive me crazy. I should have asked you when I had the chance, I should have, but I didn't, so now you'll have to come back to answer me."

I look at her pale face, touch her hair, brushing her forehead with my fingertips. Not so hot anymore, but warm, always warm under my touch.

"Please, come back, come back and tell me this," I say, brushing our lips lightly. "Who would you take to a desert island? Who would you take?"

And I just know the answer, when she opens her eyes.

 **THE END**

* * *

 **I wasn't sure about a happy ending, but I sure didn't want a tragic one. Hope you guys picture a nice future for them. :)**

 **Tks for the love, reviews and all!**

 **Oh, I must say I ended up quite liking this paring, and as I ventured into the fandom I thought maybe I'm starting to be a die-hard CissaMione fan as well as my dear friend. I see more fanfics on the way if it interests you guys :)**

 **See you around!**


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